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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24318106">A Beautiful Weapon, You</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenny_of_oldstones/pseuds/jenny_of_oldstones'>jenny_of_oldstones</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Other, Specializations, Video Game Mechanics, Vignettes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:56:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,410</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24318106</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenny_of_oldstones/pseuds/jenny_of_oldstones</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Every Inquisitor must choose a combat specialization: Necromancer, Tempest, Templar, etc. </p><p>How it affects their love life depends on the Inquisitor.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cullen Rutherford/Non-binary Trevelyan, Cullen Rutherford/Trevelyan, Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Female Adaar/Blackwall | Thom Rainier, Female Adaar/Josephine Montilyet, Female Cadash/Varric Tethras, Female Lavellan/Sera, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Iron Bull/Male Lavellan, Male Cadash/Cassandra Pentaghast</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>135</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Break</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“How many of your relatives went crazy from drinking dragon blood again?” asked Varric.</p><p>"I don't know." Cassandra shoved back a Red Templar with her shield. “It was a long time ago. Some were said—<em>grunt</em>—to have grown dragon scales.”</p><p>“<em>Dragon scales</em>?” Varric rolled out of the way of an incoming swing. He landed on his feet and put a bolt through a Red Templar’s eye.</p><p>"Why are you asking?" panted Cassandra. </p><p>"Oh, no reason," said Varric. </p><p>Across the battlefield, limbs were flying through the air. What could have been a rout was quickly turning into a victory for them.  </p><p>All because of Cadash.</p><p>When they first met, she had been shy. Pretty in a way that got a girl in trouble in the Carta. Varric knew she had to be tough, but it didn’t surprise him that she was also cautious, even hesitant. A lifetime of drawing the worst kind of attention had made her into a living shadow, always hanging back, always watching and waiting to see what others would do first.</p><p>All that had changed with the dragon blood.</p><p>A Red Templar’s head exploded in a storm of crimson. His body toppled, Cadash on top of it, her axe lodged in his brain. Her black braids flew around her face, her teeth bared, red all over as if she’d been painted with blood.</p><p>She yanked her axe out of the Templar’s head with a snarl. Pointing it at the nearest Templar, she charged.</p><p>The battle had slowed enough that Varric could stop and watch. She ducked under the Templar’s blade, spun, and took his leg off at the knee. He fell, and she pounced, burying her axe in his ribcage. She worked the metal back and forth, opening his armor, and thrust a glowing fist into the cavity. Her fingers ripped out his heart as if it was a prized jewel.</p><p>Whenever Varric took stock of his love life, he was forced to admit that he'd always been a little afraid of Bianca—it was part of why he loved her. She made it clear what she’d do to him if he ever crossed her, which, if he was honest, was kinda hot.</p><p>Cadash wasn’t like Bianca at all. She was polite where Bianca was barbed, sweet where Bianca was tart, and rustic where Bianca was refined.</p><p>He watched as she put the heart to her teeth and bit into it with a spurt of blood. </p><p>But she did scare the shit out of him.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>When the battle was over, Cadash went off by herself. She needed to time to cool down, otherwise she might lash out at a friend. He found her some time later by following the red grass to the river where she bathed. The water downstream from her was pink.</p><p>“I uh, just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” Varric raised a hand in front of his eyes. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”</p><p>"It's okay," she said. "The infusion has almost worn off." </p><p>"Almost?" he said. </p><p>She chuckled. "You're safe for now, but you might want to give me a wide berth later. Dragon blood burns coming out almost as bad as it does going down. Give me a few hours, and then you'll see a real fire-breathing monster." </p><p><em>You're no monster</em>, he thought, and was embarrassed when all the blood rushed to his groin. It didn't help that he could hear water dripping off her as she bathed. "You uh, haven't grown any dragon scales, have you?" </p><p>"Want to find out?" she asked.</p><p>He whistled and backed up. "You have gotten bold." </p><p>"I have, haven't I?" she said, and there was something awed mingled in with the pride. "Maybe when you're a little bolder, you'll join me." </p><p><em>Maybe</em>, he thought, as he turned away. <em>Maybe</em>. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Inspire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Josephine’s slippers clapped on the white tile of Val Royeaux’s central plaza. She pushed her way through the crowd, heart pounding.</p><p><em>Adaar is not a duelist,</em> was the thought that haunted her the whole way from the city gates. <em>Lord Oranto will pierce her heart with a stroke and call it honor.</em></p><p>“Stop, stop!” she cried, but her voice was drowned out by cheers. She forced her way to the front of the crowd.</p><p>Adaar and Otranto were circling each other. The disadvantage between them was immediately clear. Adaar was an imposing figure: tall, statuesque, her long white braid falling down her back from between sweeping horns, but the dueling saber clenched in her fist might as well have been a toothpick, and her steps were uncertain. This was not her forte.</p><p>Otranto, on the other hand, was in his element. He stance was at ease, his fingers light on his blade.</p><p>Josephine covered her mouth with a hand. Adaar was a fool to do this for her. Her place was on the battlefield, hammering away at foes with her great sword, not in this dance of precision and grace.</p><p>The same thought must have occurred to Otranto, because he laughed and leaped.</p><p>His sword dragged across Adaar’s midriff. The crowd screamed. Josephine felt faint. The sound of steel tearing through Adaar’s tunic was terrible, the sight of blood seeping through the fabric even worse.</p><p>Adaar did not bother to look at the wound, let alone flinch.</p><p>“I have heard it said that a Qunari’s skin is as tough as diamonds,” said Otranto, cutting the air with his saber. He returned to form. “I will have to go for your eyes, then.”</p><p>“If you can reach,” said Adaar.</p><p>With a flourish, he stabbed at her face. Adaar pivoted away, but not before the blade tore a piece of flesh from her ear. Josephine gasped. Blood ran down her neck in a stream. As before, she did not flinch.</p><p>“You are quick, Inquisitor, but not quick enough.” Again, he stabbed, and again his blade grazed the soft flesh of Adaar’s scalp, just barely missing her eye. A dozen vicious pricks, each one a near miss. They might as well have been raindrops, for all the attention Adaar paid them. The murmur of the crowd grew impressed.</p><p>For months, the Inquisitor had honed her skills with Lord Chancer de Lion, learning how to command the field rather than simply survive it. Every day, he hammered on her with his practice sword in the yard, and every day, Adaar, already a dreadnaught, grew more and more capable of taking damage, becoming the shield-wall for her loved ones she always wished to be. </p><p><em>She has withstood the fists of giants and the talons of dragons,</em> Josephine realized. <em>She will not fall to one little man with a wounded ego.</em></p><p>Otranto backed up, giving himself room to strategize. This dance continued until he was so far away that Adaar dropped her guard.</p><p>“Okay, you know what?” Adaar threw out a hand, and a chain leaped from her sleeve. It wrapped around Otranto, who yelped, and reeled him in. He swung at her, and she caught the blade in her palm. Her other hand tossed her own weapon aside and picked him up by the throat.</p><p>“Unhand me!” He sounded remarkably like a toad. “This is barbarism! You lack honor! These were not the terms we agreed upon!”</p><p>“Knock it off.” Adaar shook him like a doll until he dropped his sword. “Are you going to leave Josephine alone?”</p><p>“Leave her alone?” Otranto spluttered. “She is to be my wife!”</p><p>“You’ll have a hard time consummating the marriage if I rip your prick off with my bare hands,” said Adaar.</p><p>It was a testament to how steady Adaar’s voice was that Otranto turned pale. “I—House Otranto will consider this matter closed.”</p><p>Despite herself, Josephine huffed with annoyance. So much for her betrothed.</p><p>“Asha!” she shouted.</p><p>It was Adaar’s turn to pale. “Josephine.”</p><p>“What are you doing?” Josephine stamped her foot. “You could have been killed, and for what? And <em>you</em>. How dare you go behind my back like this.”</p><p>“Lady Montilyet,” Otranto croaked. “I can explain.”</p><p>“Unhand him,” said Josephine.</p><p>Adaar dropped him. Otranto landed on the ground with a groan.</p><p>Josephine took a handkerchief from her pocket. Standing on her tiptoes, she dabbed the blood from Adaar’s ear. “You are lucky not to be dead.”</p><p>“Just a few bee stings,” murmured Adaar. Her eyes went sleepy. Josephine realized how close they were standing together, in public, and flushed.</p><p>“You could have broken my heart,” said Josephine.</p><p>Her voice cracked. Adaar lowered her eyes, ashamed.</p><p><em>Even though you looked like a gallant prince</em>, thought Josephine, but now was not the time to say that. "Did Lord Chancer not teach you the value of strategic retreats?"</p><p>"No," mumbled Adaar.</p><p>"Ugh, I could strangle you." Josephine kissed her instead. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Make</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bull hated Lavellan's hobby.</p><p>The room above the tavern where they rutted was covered in tiny gears that stuck like barbs if you stepped on them with your bare foot. The floor was stained with grease, and the table where Lavellan worked most nights was a thorny nest of metal wires. The room smelled like hot steel, and not in a sexy way.</p><p>Bull sat against the headboard, his cock pulsing. Lavellan had bounded up after they were done, because apparently he’d spent the entire night doing math in his head instead of going brainless with pleasure the way Bull wanted. He sat hunched over his table, torturing a thread of copper wire into a knot with a pair of pliers. He was damp with sweat and absolutely fucking gorgeous, and way too far away for Bull’s liking.</p><p>“Hey.” Bull whistled at him. “HEY.”</p><p>He slammed a hand on the nightstand, hard enough that the tavern below could hear it. Lavellan didn't even glance up. He just kept tinkering with the pile of scrap metal in the little corner he’d claimed as his “workshop.” </p><p>“Mahanon,” said Bull. “Come here.”</p><p>“Be patient,” said Lavellan. “I’m making something for you.”</p><p>Bull had heard that excuse before. Usually, Lavellan came up with some devious toy that was impressive but of little interest to anyone else but him. It tried Bull's patience. </p><p>Especially when that devious toy was keeping Lavellan’s pert little ass from being in Bull's lap where it belonged.</p><p>“What is it this time?” he rumbled. “A toy bird that flies around spitting acid?”</p><p>“No, that one was a failure,” said Lavellan.</p><p>No shit. Bull remembered how the little bird had flown squeakily around the head of a Venatori for two seconds, acid piddling out of a hole under its tail features, before crashing to the ground with a sad “woooooot.”</p><p>“Some mechanical spider that lays tripwires?” asked Bull.</p><p>That one had been a little more useful. The little gadget had crawled quietly through a Red Templar camp, only for it sizzle out as soon as it crossed a creek.</p><p>“Salvageable, but no, not what I’m working on.”</p><p>“You know, Mahanon, I’m no artificer, but maybe if you stuck to simple designs instead of cute toys, you might have more luck.”</p><p>“You sound like Three-Eyes,” said Mahanon.</p><p>His black hair was loose, and he kept shrugging it from his face. Bull would have liked to knot it in his hand like a horse’s mane and give it a yank.</p><p>“Done!” Lavellan grunted as he lifted his creation. He set the heavy thing on the edge of the bed, beaming.</p><p>“You’re getting grease on my sheets,” said Bull.</p><p>“I’m sorry, I had no idea you were concerned about stains.” Lavellan squirted oil into the contraption with a little can. Then he yanked a pull-cord, and the thing started to vibrate. “Ta-da.”</p><p>It was a giant metal dildo. A loud, faintly smoking, vibrating metal dildo. </p><p>“Gross,” said Bull.</p><p>“How is it <em>gross</em>?” said Lavellan. </p><p>“You got that metal out of a scrap pile.”</p><p>“It can be cleaned," said Lavellan. "It's the Iron Dildo. For the Iron Bull."</p><p>"Uh-uh."</p><p>"I can sit on it while I suck you off. I might be a genius.”</p><p>Bull failed to think of a worse moodkiller than a wheezy, greasy, frankly dangerous metal dildo blowing smoke up his boyfriend’s ass. He was usually up for anything, but this?</p><p>“Or—” Bull knocked the dildo off the bed with his leg. He snatched Mahanon hard against his chest, ignoring his outraged squawk. “We can stick to basics.”</p><p>“Vanilla.” Mahanon wrinkled his nose as Bull licked a warm stripe up his neck. After awhile, his eyes started to go fuzzy. “I mean, really? What’s the worst that could happen?”</p><p>By the time Bull got his fingers up to the first knuckle in him, Mahanon’s arguments had become slurred. “I trained for months. You think I don’t know my own machines?” He groaned as Bull fisted a hand around his cock.</p><p>“Kadan,” said Bull. “It’s a bad idea.”</p><p>“You’re a bad idea,” Lavellan murmured, but gave in.</p><p>A second before the dildo burst into flames.  </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Endure</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His hands shook.</p><p>Not even a year on lyrium, and his hands shook.</p><p>He didn’t think it would be like this. He just needed a way to fight the Venatori that didn’t involve him getting set on fire every week. All the warnings were there, but he figured he had time. After Corypheus was dead, he’d go cold turkey. He wouldn’t be like the lyrium-addled sots drooling on themselves in Skyhold’s courtyard, barely able to string two words together after thirty years on the stuff. He was a smuggler, and he knew better than to get hooked on a supply that left men shells of their former selves.</p><p>But Ancestors, he craved it.</p><p>He counted down the minutes between drafts. He woke every dawn hungry for it.</p><p>This morning was worse than usual. His insides felt raw and parched. If Cassandra wasn't in bed beside him, he’d be up in an instant, guzzling the stuff. He needed that icy coolness sweeping down his throat—the instantaneous relief.</p><p>“Marlowe?” Cassandra murmured in the near-dark. “Are you all right?"</p><p>She always seemed to wake at the same time he did. It was because she felt the need to spy on him, the same way she used to on Cullen—the dutiful Seeker watching for hairline cracks. It made him hate her. That was the worst part of all this. The lyrium made him <em>hate</em> her.</p><p>“Go back to sleep,” he said, gruffly.</p><p>How much longer before she saw him as broken? She had never wanted him to start lyrium. They had argued. But what was he supposed to do? He was a dwarf with a hammer fighting against an army of mages. None of that seemed to matter to anyone. She looked at him differently now. They all did. Dorian didn't joke with him like he used to. Vivienne approved, which makes his skin crawl. Solas barely gave him the time of day. He was killing himself for their sakes, so why did they all act like he’d betrayed them?</p><p>The philter was right there. Who cared if it was a few hours earlier than usual? Let Cass judge him. Since when did she get a say in how he destroyed himself?</p><p>He got out of bed and opened the philter. He mixed the powders, giving it a hard shake to let the grit settle to the bottom. Then he quaffed it.</p><p>Every nerve in his body cooled. </p><p>It was peace as nothing else in the world gave him.</p><p>He put the philter back in its box and turned to face Cassandra. She was pretending to be asleep, but he knew better. He could see the glitter of unshed tears in her eyelashes. </p><p><em>I’m sorry,</em> he thought. <em>It wasn’t supposed to be like this.</em></p><p>
  <em>I wasn't supposed to be like this. </em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Smash</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was a lot to love about being a Tempest. Tingly lightning bottles. Frosty ice bottles. Boiling fire bottles. Sera’s tongue poking out of her mouth while she drip-dripped little bits of alchemy into a bottle, always at arm’s length.</p><p>“Never know when it might blow,” Sera giggled.</p><p>"Has it ever?" asked Lavellen. "I mean, have you ever hurt yourself, accidentally?"</p><p>"Sure," said Sera, squinting at the mixtures tumbling in the glass. "Got that fat scar on my knee from when I spilled some, and one time, <em>one time</em>, I was mixing up a batch in a privy in Wildervale, and it was all farty in there, and <em>whoosh</em>, up it went." </p><p>Sera's hands stayed steady despite how hard she was laughing. Lavellan liked that about her: she was focused and fun at the same time.</p><p>"Your stuff always comes out better than mine," said Lavellan. Her own fire bottle, which should have been volcanic orange, was a dull brown. "It just sorta makes my armor hot, not roars like it's supposed to." </p><p>"But you're still learning, yah?" Sera gave her one of those sweet looks that lasted all of three seconds before going randy. "Learning lots of things."</p><p>Lavellan blushed. She hadn't exactly been a virgin before the Inquisition, but Sera certainly made her feel like one. Her tumbles with the girls of her clan felt chaste compared to what they had been up to.</p><p>"This thing right here?" Sera indicated the bottle in her hand. "New formula. Burns three times as hot in ten different colors."</p><p>"Have you tested it before?" asked Lavellan. </p><p>"Pffft, sure." Sera stoppered the bottle with a fat cork.</p><p>"Sera," said Lavellan, sternly. </p><p>"Inky," said Sera.</p><p>"If you haven't tested it, maybe you shouldn't use it," said Lavellan.</p><p>"You think too much. Being a Tempest means <em>not</em> thinking. It means saying, 'fuck it,' going with your gut, and lighting 'em up, yah?"</p><p>Lavellan supposed there was some truth to that. Being a Tempest was scary at first, but she'd learned to trust the oils she slathered on her armor to protect her from her own mixtures. It had been hard to let go of her need for caution, but Sera had helped break her of that habit. Maybe she was overthinking things. </p><p>"All right," she sighed. "I trust you."</p><p>Then they rutted under the table. It was a "good work" rut, the kind you do when you’ve checked off every box for the day, including the “we didn’t blow ourselves up” box.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The next morning, she woke to find Sera meddling with their packs.</p><p>"What are you doing?" asked Lavellan, sitting up. </p><p>Sera bolted upright. "Nothing." </p><p>Lavellan grinned. She recognized a prank in progress when she saw one. "Well, don't spoil 'nothing' for me, then." </p><p>"Where would be the fun in that?" Sera dove back into bed. She burrowed under Lavellan's sticky armpit and kissed bad breath up and down her neck. "Can't wait to see your face." </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>They were ambushed by bandits outside of Redcliffe the next morning.</p><p>Lavellan's daggers cut through them like scissors. She was quick, and small, but still getting as much as she gave. <em>Why</em> were there still this many bandits in the Hinterlands?</p><p>"Oi!" Sera waved across the field. A bandit's bloody ear was in her hand, and she shouted into it, "Knock-knock, who's there? Your face up and your ass down! Because....no wait, reverse that. Sod it." She threw the ear down and dove back into the fray. </p><p>Lavellan cackled. That woman. </p><p>She jumped up on a rock. The bandits were rallying. Bull swung his axe through them in blood arcs, Sera picked them off with arrows, and Vivienne froze the rest in sprays of ice. Two of the bandits noticed the Inquisitor and ran for her. </p><p>She grinned a feral grin.</p><p>“Bad luck, you,” she said.</p><p>She’d started to talk like Sera, the more time they spent together. She couldn't help it. They were alike in so many ways, even if Sera was spontaneous in a way Lavellan found hard to match. She stewed. She overthought. She couldn't let things go. She dithered and debated when all she really needed was to embrace chaos. </p><p>She took the warm bottle from her pack and held it over her head.</p><p>“Eat fire, assholes!” She smashed it, and the flames rushed up her leggings with a <em>whoosh</em>.</p><p>And then the flames ate through her leggings.</p><p><em>Oh shit</em>, she thought, before she screamed.</p><p>She fell off the rock, and the fire was on her face, in her lungs, and then it all went dark. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>When she woke, it was to the sticky wheeze of her own breathing. The pain was immediate and unreal.</p><p>They sedated her every time she regained consciousness. Once, she managed to see a little out of her left eye, and watched a healer lift a dripping bandage from the yellow meat of her arm. Her right eye was black, and she couldn't move it, which probably meant it wasn't there anymore.</p><p>“How could this happen?” someone asked over her bed. Cullen? Dorian? She couldn't tell. Sera wept. “I dunno, I dunno.”</p><p>How could this happen?</p><p>She was weak as a kitten when they finally allowed her to stay awake. Her body was in agony, and there was gangrene in her face. A nurse dutifully slid a tube down her throat once a day to put sludge in her stomach, and another nurse even more dutifully wiped the shit from the back of her legs each night.</p><p>Sera came and sat beside her, though she disappeared whenever Lavellan started to groan in pain. It was a long time later, when her definition of pain has become so broad as to be meaningless, that Lavellan asked her,</p><p>“The fire batch that day….did I make it, or did you?”</p><p>Sera froze. She’d been knitting a hat for Lavellan’s bald head, and her fingers went white as bones. </p><p>“It’s just…” Lavellan licked what remained of her lips. “I can’t understand why the batch ate through the oils on my clothes like that. It shouldn’t have. My mixtures were never that volatile.”</p><p>Sera’s eyes went wide. “Maybe it was an assassin or something. Maybe some evil shit tried to do you in.”</p><p>Lavellan remembered a night of kissing, and Sera fiddling with their packs the morning after.</p><p>“Yeah,” said Lavellan. “Maybe." </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Revere</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Adaar did not fear death.</p><p>She was Valo-Kas, seven feet of terrifying apostate, and she put men in the ground for less than a silver. Death was her pleasure and profession. </p><p>But darkspawn were different.</p><p>She and her party had been investigating an underground ruin in Emprise du Leon. The smell coming from the tunnels had been putrid. They followed it to a deep abyss and gazed into it, and the abyss gazed back.</p><p>Darkspawn climbed up the walls. Cackling, hallooing darkspawn, with their toxic blood and rusted weapons, flooded the tunnels like cockroaches.</p><p>Adaar slammed ice walls into place, buying her people time as they backtracked through miles of dark tunnel. Each time, the ice was thinner, her arms heavier, the demons louder in her head.</p><p>“They’re coming!” Varric shouted. He shot off a bolt and ran up a staircase. Adaar spun. A Hurlock was charging right at her.</p><p>She tore at the Veil with her nails, drawing the tattered wisps to land on the hurlock’s head. It exploded like an overripe melon, and she staggered.</p><p>“C’mon, love.” Thom tugged her arm. She stumbled up the stairs.</p><p>“Damn them.” She threw up another wall, and two genlocks burst through it as if it was sugar. “We’re not going to make it—”</p><p>Thom pushed her. “Go!”</p><p>“What?!”</p><p>He hunkered down behind his shield. “Go!” He shouted again.</p><p>“Not without you,” she said.</p><p>“I’ll be right behind you,” he said.</p><p>"Piss on that." She stood beside him, and together they brunted the wave of darkspawn. His sword cut into them, and her staff spewed fire. The darkspawn were thick as hornets, and inside she despaired.</p><p><em>This is it</em>, she thought. All those hours spent dissecting corpses for her necromantic studies only to end up a corpse herself. Corypheus would win. Desperate, she scrounged her memory for some arcane trick that might buy them time. Viuus Anaxas's voice lilted through her head, "to stop at death is wasteful. Death can make allies of enemies. Death can rend the battlefield. Death can <em>terrify</em>." Would these darkspawn fall back in fear if she raised their comrades? Would they even care?  </p><p>A shoulder plowed into her, and the sword stroke meant for her head stabbed into Thom.</p><p>Her shriek echoed off the walls. "Thom!" </p><p>She knew he was dead. He crumpled across her feet like a doll.</p><p>And she? The brave Inquisitor?</p><p>She turned and ran.</p><p>Her long stride carried her up the stairs faster than the darkspawn. She turned at the last corner, tears in her eyes, and saw Thom Rainier dead and alone in a dark pit beneath the earth.</p><p>She didn't think about what came next. She raised a hand, and her magic sank into his flesh like puppet strings. She drove a wedge of it deep into his heart, and his eyes flashed purple. He rose grotesquely, limbs herky-jerky, and lifted his sword and shield. His first stroke lobbed he head off an Emissary.</p><p>The darkspawn cut into his flesh, but he did not slow. He slammed into them with ghastly strength, the spawn's jeering joy turning to dismay, then fear. Thom Rainier's body sprayed the walls with their blood, and never once did he flinch.  </p><p>He looked like a Warden there, in his griffon wing helm. Tears streaming down her face, she left him, her journey secure as she ran back through the darkness of the tunnels, back to light. </p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Trust</h2></a>
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    <p>Lavellan's hand hurt.</p><p>The handle of her spectral blade dug into the Anchor. With each impact of her sword, shockwaves of pain shot up arm and into her jaw. Lavellan buried her sword into the chest of a charging Qunari. His corpse fell on top of her, and she fell to her knees. Wincing, she shoved him off. </p><p>Creators, her hand <em>hurt</em>. </p><p>All around her, the ruins of her people seemed to judge her. <em>You thought you knew who you were</em>, they whispered. <em>You were proud to take up the mantle of knight-enchanter, because you thought it tied us to you. But you are no are no warrior of Arlathan. Your clan is dead and your gods are slavers. What legacy do you think you carry? Who do you think you are, bareface?  </em></p><p>The golden light of her blade flickered. Sweat poured down her face, each breath cutting into her lungs like knives. Her companions called for her to follow up the stairs and she ran after them, red leaves falling from the trees on either side. Eluvians glowed on every ridge.</p><p>Behind one of them was Solas.  </p><p>When she had first undertaken her discipline, he was the one she most wanted to show her technique. She had brought her newly crafted sword handle to him, and his eyes had lit up. He knew of the knight-enchanters from his journeys in the Fade, he said. She believed him. </p><p>Fool, her. </p><p>"Inquisitor!" Dorian shouted.</p><p>She spun and raised her blade. A Qunari axe slammed into it, the blow reverberating down her arm. The Anchor flared, green fire eating into the bones of her hand like acid. </p><p>Her left leg gave out. The Qunari pressed down, until the flat of her sword was against her chest. The Anchor flared again, and her blade flickered out. The Qunari yanked his axe back, lifting it high above his head. Lavellan couldn't move. All she could do was clutch her arm to herself as the Anchor roared and split her flesh.</p><p>Cole appeared on top of the Qunari in a puff of black smoke, his daggers stabbing into the Qunari's face over and over. He toppled over with Cole on top of him. </p><p>"Are you all right?" Cassandra skidded onto her knees beside her. "Aoife, talk to me." </p><p>Lavellan turned over onto her hands and knees. The hilt of her sword lay in the mud. She had crafted it out of sylvanwood to honor her clan. She had told Solas about that, too. She told him being a knight-encahnter was like being an Emerald Knight, like in the stories her mother used to tell her of the Dales. </p><p>But she was no Emerald Knight. She was just an orphan whose people had been slaughtered, abandoned by a lover she trusted. </p><p>Cassandra picked up her sword and handed it to her. "Can you still fight?" </p><p>Lavellan let Cole pull her shakily to her feet. She gripped the sword hilt with bloody fingers and forced herself to breathe. </p><p>"Yes," she said. "But we must make haste." </p><p>So on they ran. Keeping her spectral blade lit was like trying to keep a candle aflame in a gale. </p><p>She had believed in so many things. Her gods, her lover, herself. None of them had proven worthy of trust. But she had to believe the worst would not happen. No matter what he had done, no matter how badly he deceived her, Solas would not let her lose her arm. Surely, he still loved her enough to not let her suffer this final disillusionment. She would save Solas, and he would save her. </p><p>She had to believe that.</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. End</h2></a>
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    <p> </p><p>“Have you seen Ty?” Cullen asked his sister.</p><p>Mia shrugged, sipping her tea. “I think they went outside.”</p><p>Cullen frowned at that. Trevelyan was supposed to be on strict bedrest, but apparently “bedrest” meant waiting for Cullen to leave the room before sneaking off. He opened the kitchen door and stepped into the yard. Miles of wheat swayed downhill from their homestead, the wind pushing it down in waves.</p><p>“Ty?” he called.</p><p>The mabari slinked out from under the porch and stretched. Cullen gave him a scratch behind the ears. “Have you seen your other parent around?”</p><p>The mabari set off behind the barn. Cullen followed, then stopped when he heard crying.</p><p>His first instinct, absurdly, was the wonder if it was his little nephew. He had never heard Ty cry before. They cried silently, jaw locked tight around their grief, never in deep, gulping sobs like this.</p><p>“Ty?” Cullen ran around the barn. “Are you all right?”</p><p>Trevelyan leapt to their feet. Their locks hung over their face, and they pushed them back, wiping their eyes in the same movement. “No worries. Just got a little winded, that’s all.”</p><p>Cullen stared at them. They held a bow in their right hand, three arrows stabbed into the earth. They stood a good fifty paces from a bale of hay. Other objects in the dirt- a hook, a string, a metal clip - told Cullen everything he needed to know. </p><p>Trevelyan was trying to figure out a way to shoot a bow one-handed. </p><p>“Dear heart.” Cullen reached for them, and Ty jerked away.</p><p><em>Let me hold you</em>, he wanted to say. <em>Maker’s breath, don’t shut me out like this.</em></p><p>“Ty, the healers said you needed at least three more weeks of bedrest,” he said. “I know it’s unpleasant, but if you exert yourself, you’ll just delay your recovery.”</p><p>“My recovery.” Ty laughed. “What does that even mean?”</p><p>Cullen said nothing. Trevelyan had once been the deadliest archer he had ever seen. They could pin a fly at a hundred paces, take down a dragon with one killer shot, and fade into the shadows when it was all said and done. Beautiful, terrifying, precise. An assassin of unparalleled skill. How many times had he watched Trevelyan walk along a balcony and screamed for them to get down, only for Trevelyan to laugh and do a handstand instead? There was nothing in the world that scared them.</p><p>The bow in their hand was one of the gifts Divine Victoria had given them at the Exalted Council: sylvanwood with a dragon gut string. A bow meant to last a lifetime.</p><p>Ty caught him looking and threw it in the dust.</p><p>“All those years of training,” they said. “Wasted.”</p><p>“No,” said Cullen.</p><p>“How is anyone going to respect me ever again? How am I going to respect me? I can’t even hunt a rabbit like this.”</p><p>Trevelyan sat down hard on the ground. They beat their fist against their chest. Cullen went to them and gathered them in his arms.</p><p>“I respect you,” he whispered. “You are so much more than what you’ve lost.”</p><p>“That’s the scary thing, Cullen,” they said, tears streaming down their face. “I’m not sure I am.”</p><p>"You are," Cullen insisted. "It's okay to be scared, but you....you are a whirlwind. You will find a way." </p><p>Ty did not answer. They simply cried as they had never cried before, like a child in his arms. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Train</h2></a>
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    <p> </p><p>“It is a shame about the Inquisitor, isn’t it?”</p><p>Dorian swirled his wine. The magister at his side was more than a little drunk and said the words loud enough for Trevelyan to hear. Trevelyan, Dorian’s guest at this tiresome function, was dressed in a soft grey tunic buttoned neatly under his left elbow. It was his first ball since his amputation and first introduction to Tevinter high society. The magisters sensed his weakness and were prodding him, making sure the dragon was truly defanged.</p><p>“What is a shame about him, my good woman?” asked Dorian.</p><p>“I mean, just look at him.” The magister tittered. “Like a three-legged dog. Poor dear."</p><p>“Inquisitor!” said another magister, and Dorian snapped to attention. “Or is it former Inquisitor?”</p><p>Trevelyan took a long sip of wine. “Inquisitor will suffice.”</p><p>“Of course. Such a title would be difficult to abdicate for anyone, let alone yourself.”</p><p>The magisters chuckled. Dorian took a deep breath, willing himself to calm. His desire to rush to Trevelyan’s defense was difficult to suppress. After a year of watching his lover struggle every day with the most mundane of tasks, to see him pecked at by these vultures was too cruel.</p><p><em>Steady</em>, he told himself.<em> He will resent you if you interfere.</em></p><p>“Is it true you were an arch-mage before your regrettable accident?” asked the magister.</p><p>“Some called me that,” said Trevelyan.</p><p>“And is it true you mastered an entirely new school of magic?”</p><p>“Mastery is in the eye of the beholder,” said Trevelyan. “But if you mean Rift Magic, yes.”</p><p>“I see. What would that entail, given that there are no more rifts?”</p><p>“It is a manipulation of the Veil,” said Trevelyan. “It relies not on transmuting energy into different forms, but channeling it as one channels a river. Powerful, versatile, and pure.”</p><p>“Very impressive," said the magister. "What a profoundly sad loss to have mastered such a rare art only to become a cripple.”</p><p>Trevelyan finished his drink and set it on a passing servant’s tray. “And you, Magister Filius, what is your school?"</p><p>"I am an enchanter of the Minrathous College of Necromancy," said Filius. "The same as your friend, Magister Pavus." </p><p>"I finished first in my class," said Dorian. "Filius here, unfortunately, was further down the lists." </p><p>Filius's smile tightened. "Grades are not everything. Perhaps if you were able to pass a motion in the magisterium, Dorian, you would know that." </p><p>Laughter again. Oh yes, what a great joke he was. It might have rankled him into an unwise response, had his attention not been focused solely on Trevelyan. </p><p>"Your field requires a strong stomach," said Trevelyan. </p><p>"Necromancy?" said Filius. "It does require an intimacy with death for which most lack the constitution. Fortunately, I got over my squeamishness as an apprentice." </p><p>"You family supplies the College with cadavers?" asked Trevelyan. </p><p>"You have done your research, Inquisitor. Many in my family are alumni to the college and are gracious donors. That includes bodies." </p><p>"And where do these bodies come from?" asked Trevelyan. </p><p>"I sense that you already know the answer to that question. It is not a subject for polite society." </p><p>"Good thing we are not in polite society," said Trevelyan. </p><p>The ballroom went very quiet. Filius tilted his head.</p><p>"My family owes its fortune to slaves," said Filius. "Our hunters collect our crop from the Dalish clans of the Tirashan and return it to Minrathous for breeding and selling. Some die on the way to market, others due to circumstance. Those that do are given to the College for study." </p><p>"How generous of you," said Trevelyan. </p><p>"I am greatly indebted to academia," said Filius. "A true necromancer needs more than theory: he must sink his hands into flesh. Ask your friend if you do not believe me." </p><p>"I did ask him. He told me a great deal about your trade."  </p><p>“Is that a note of disapproval I hear? Nearly every man and woman here has a hand in the slave trade,” said Filius. "We are a civilized country that understands every creature has a purpose and a place in the Maker’s design. So the oxen to the yolk are the elves to the collar. It must be very difficult for a southerner like yourself to understand.”</p><p>“Yes,” said Trevelyan. “It is.”</p><p>"Then it has been my pleasure to educate you." </p><p>Filius plucked a roasted songbird from a passing tray. Trevelyan did as well. The two men smiled at each other, then bit into the birds and chewed loudly, bones and all.</p><p>“You are the head of your household, yes?” asked Trevelyan, mouth full.</p><p>“I am."</p><p>“And without heirs. How fortunate that a land dispute with your sister has left your will open-ended. Upon your death, all your slaves will go free." </p><p>A glowing green hand appeared from the air and slammed over Filius's face. People screamed. The hand, beginning where Trevelyan’s left arm ended, crackled with emerald green veins. It shoved the magister down to his knees, smoke gushing from between its fingers. The man twitched as electrical current shot through him. The smell of cooked meet permeated the room.</p><p>When Trevelyan removed his hand, the magister fell over dead.</p><p>Trevelyan curled the fingers of his Fade Hand. The digits were long, hooked claws, as long as a dragon's. He mimed examining his nails, then waved the arm out of existence.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>As they exited the ballroom, Dorian offered his arm to Trevelyan. "I hope giving away your trump card was worth it." </p><p>The Fade Hand appeared again. It was as firm as flesh and tingled slightly to the touch.</p><p>"Solas would have let them believe him harmless forever if need be," said Trevelyan. "But I am not him. I want them to fear me." </p><p>"To that end, I believe you have succeeded, my dear," said Dorian. "Rift mage indeed." </p><p>Trevelyan smiled. "A master never stops learning." </p><p> </p>
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